


2789 Miles

by lupwned



Category: Carol (2015), The Price of Salt - Patricia Highsmith
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Online Dating, F/F, Long-Distance Relationship, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 08:13:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18069788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lupwned/pseuds/lupwned
Summary: Unlike the others, this one registers at a 90%, far exceeding anything else that’s shown up in her inbox thus far. This woman’s profile picture is far less suggestive than her other so-called matches, her face half-covered by the professional camera she holds in front of it. Her hair is straight and dark and sits just below her jawline, and by the lack of fine lines at her eyes and mouth as she smiles, Carol guesses she can’t be much older than twenty-five. The public side of her profile is mostly bare except for a short self-written description that’s about as cryptic as Carol’s own.Flung out of space.





	2789 Miles

_Because you deserve what dating deserves: better._

Carol stares at the brightly colored website, images of young twenty-somethings smiling and embracing each other reflected in her browser window. The entire concept of online dating is slightly terrifying to her, and the fresh faces plastered across her screen don't do much to dissuade her from clicking the red 'x' and stuffing her Macbook back in her workbag where it belongs. If the majority of the user base is even close to the models on the homepage, Carol guesses her feeble attempts at finding a match will be nothing short of disastrous.

Carol swirls the glass of Pinot Noir in her hand before taking a sip – or two or three. The delicious red is a standard part of her Friday night, which usually consists of take out from Nar Mediterranean and some sort of awful erotic thriller on Netflix, followed by a scroll through her nearly abandoned Facebook page to check in on Abby's adventures with her latest Tinder dates. The idea of a one-night stand isn't exactly Carol's cup of tea, but it's impossible not to feel jealous when Abby's photos of lavish dinner dates fill her feed.

Harge's pictures of their daughter, smiling with a big swirl of cotton candy in her hand and brightly colored amusement park rides behind her, don't exactly help matters either. On his weekends, he spoils the hell out of her, which only makes it more difficult when the five-year-old returns home hyper, filled with sugar, and tantrum prone. Carol wouldn't trade Rindy for the world, but always playing bad cop leaves her absolutely exhausted – and certainly not a hot commodity when it comes to her dating life.

“You've officially reached MILF status, Carol,” Abby'd explained matter-of-factly. “You are what a baby gay's dreams are made of.”

“I'm appalled that even came out of your mouth, Abigail.”

Carol sets her laptop down beside her on the couch and makes her way over to her liquor cabinet. Nearly finished with her wine, she'll assuredly need something stronger if she's ever to find the courage to actually go through with setting up her profile. Jack Daniel's seems like an appropriate choice, and it burns deliciously as she sips it on the rocks. It relaxes and warms her, and as she stares at the fields on the registration form, her blinking cursor suddenly doesn't seem quite as intimidating as it once was. Biting the bullet, she enters her email address, basic contact information, and sexual orientation and waits for the next prompt.

**Your Age:**

“Well they certainly get right to the point,” Carol mumbles under her breath. She begrudgingly answers, then moves to the next item. It's a few “getting to know you”-type questions, the kind of awkward small talk she avoids at all costs. The site doesn't let her move forward without answering at least a few, so she plows ahead, grateful to find that the first prompts aren't particularly offensive.

**Do you drink?**

Carol toasts her laptop, then tilts her head back to suck down the rest of the whiskey in her glass.

**Do you enjoy dining out or cooking at home?**

Looking over at the half-finished containers of carry-out, she doesn't have to think particularly hard about the answer to that one.

** What are you looking for in a match? **

God, if she knew how to answer that one, she wouldn't be in this mess to start with. Does anyone _really_ know what they want until they actually find it? There was a time in her life where she thought someone like Harge was the right answer. And there was equally a time where she thought Abby might be the one to check all the boxes that Harge never could. She certainly came closer than he ever did, but even then, there was still something missing – the chemistry of a partner, the _romance_ , not friendship mistaken for love. Abby was a spark but never a flame – and without enough kindling to keep it going, the heat was impossible to sustain.

What _is_ she looking for? With the entire internet at her disposal, there are so many possibilities. She's hardly an expert when it comes to dating women, having only really gone out with them as a courtesy to Abby for double-dates. They'd all been pretty young things, sugar babies looking for a steady cash flow and some good sex to boot, and while Carol's pretty confident she can provide both of those things, she needs a bit more than Abby's vapid matches.

The text box is long enough to write several paragraphs, but Carol keeps her answer concise and very on-brand.

_A friend. A challenge. An equal. A wildfire._

By now, she's a little drunk, and her answers are borderline cryptic, so she instead focuses on a variety of “yes” or “no” questions that force her to stick to a script. They're basic things that help the site's algorithm find her first matches, and when she saves the last of ten additional answers, her inbox quickly fills with pictures of admittedly stunning women with the “percentage matched” displayed next to their profile image. They each barely register above the 50% mark, and Carol has to wonder whether simply marking she's a woman seeking another woman somehow matches her with every non-male-identifying seeking person on the damned site.

Carol grabs her phone and sends Abby a frustrated text.

 

Abby  
  
I swear, Abigail, if I get any dick pics out of this, I'm making sure to forward every single one to you for your own viewing pleasure.  
  
There's no love without a little suffering.  
  
Or a lot of suffering, if you're into that sort of thing. And I know you are.  
  
How poetic.  


Scrolling through each match's gallery of profile pictures, Carol guesses she should post something herself. It isn't required, but it would likely help garner some _real_ matches. She absolutely loathes having her picture taken, but there are a few on her private Instagram account that would suffice. She logs in through her browser and saves a few options – a selfie she'd taken on a trip to London years ago and a full-body shot Abby had taken of her during their last group dinner date (although it had been a bust, the red suit she'd chosen to wear that night was _quite_ the look). Ultimately, she chooses one a colleague had taken at a recent conference, only her profile visible with her head turned. The white collar of her button up peeks up along her neck, but for the most part, it's a strong, dark image of one side of her face, offering just a hint of what she looks like. The site forces an awful circle-shaped crop, and as Carol tries to position it to be _somewhat_ flattering, a message notification pops up in the middle of her screen.

“You've got a match! View **Therese's** profile now.”

Carol closes out of the image upload prompt to follow the link.

Unlike the others, this one registers at a 90%, far exceeding anything else that's shown up in her inbox thus far. This woman's profile picture is far less suggestive than her other so-called matches, her face half-covered by the professional camera she holds in front of it. Her hair is straight and dark and sits just below her jawline, and by the lack of fine lines at her eyes and mouth as she smiles, Carol guesses she can't be much older than twenty-five. The public side of her profile is mostly bare except for a short self-written description that's about as cryptic as Carol's own.

_Flung out of space._

She'll blame it all on alcohol and Abby's bad influence in the morning, but Carol's too intrigued to not at least say _something_. The site's free plan offers the ability to send “hearts” to higher-level matches as a way to show interest. It's pathetic and a little childish, but Carol plays the game, clicking on the outlined heart next to Therese's profile picture until it fills in with bright cherry red. “Simple enough,” Carol shrugs.

She hardly expects anything out of it. There's really nothing to lose. A year of Abby setting her up on blind date after blind date has taught her not to get her hopes up. Exhausted, she closes her laptop and tosses it onto the other side of the couch before turning off the living room lights to make her way to her bedroom. Without Rindy there, it's uncomfortably quiet, so the TV in her bedroom gets some rare use as she puts on a late night talk show to fall asleep to. It doesn't take long for her to doze off, and when a high-pitched “ding” fills the room an hour or so later, Carol isn't certain whether she's still dreaming or if the noise had come from the infomercial that replaces Fallon. It takes a few blinks and a reach for her reading glasses before she can decipher the notification alert on her phone.

“Therese has sent you a heart. Send messages for free – this weekend only!”

**Author's Note:**

> An exercise in finding Carol's voice :) Are you in with me?


End file.
